


Break the Horizon

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsuzuki’s dreams manifest and Tatsumi is left holding the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break the Horizon

~*~

  


  


_“Imagine an army of lovers. How invincible they’d be_ ,” Muraki had said, his voice slicing through Tsuzuki’s dream like a hot knife.   


He shot up, throwing the blankets back. Moonlight streamed in through the window. He was soaked in sweat, trembling. His chest heaved as he struggled for air. His fingertips traced the hollow of his throat—no hands gripped him there. He wasn’t choking. Wasn’t choking . . .  


A knock on the door.  


Tsuzuki turned, startled. It must be two o’clock in the morning. Did people in the ministry apartments usually stay up so late?   


“Yes?”  


The door snicked open and a wedge of light arched across the floor. “Tsuzuki,” Tatsumi said quietly. “I was walking down the hall and heard you cry out. I didn’t realize you were spending the night here.” Tatsumi raked him with his gaze. “Are you all right?”  


Tsuzuki frowned and lowered his head. Hair fell into his eyes as he stared at his shaking hands. “Just a nightmare,” he murmured.  


Tatsumi paused, then simply let himself in. He was wearing a brown suit, crisp and immaculate as ever, but his tie was loose and his shirt was open down to the second button, revealing smooth skin. He hesitantly wandered over, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “Tsuzuki?”  


“It’s nothing,” he said automatically. “Just . . . so much has been going on lately . . . with Muraki . . . and Hisoka.” He managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, Tatsumi. No reason to worry.”  


Tatsumi stared at him a moment, then smirked. “With you, there’s always reason to worry.” He smoothed his palm over Tsuzuki’s hair to soften the harshness of his words. “You’re sweaty.”  


“Sorry,” Tsuzuki grumbled, uncomfortable. It was too late to go grab a shower and he really just wanted more sleep. He’d been so tired lately . . .  


Tatsumi pushed him back down to the bed and covered him with all but the top blanket. “Stay under the covers. Don’t catch a chill.”   


“Tatsumi . . .”  


“Shh.” Tatsumi tucked the blankets up under his chin, like was a kid, a younger brother, perhaps, and smiled. “You look tired, Tsuzuki. Get good rest.”  


He turned to go. Tsuzuki reached out and held Tatsumi’s wrist. The words wouldn’t come. He could only stare up at Tatsumi—looking past the shine on the glasses, into ice-blue eyes.   


Tatsumi covered his warm hand over Tsuzuki’s frozen one, stroked the back of his wrist for a moment, and then placed it delicately back under the covers.   


Tsuzuki wanted to ask Tatsumi to stay the night. For a moment, it looked like Tatsumi _wanted_ him to ask. But he couldn’t. _Wouldn’t_ burden Tatsumi that way again. They weren’t partners anymore. Tatsumi was Secretary of the Ministry of Hades. He was always busy, had so many concerns. He didn’t need to worry about babysitting mentally fragile _shinigami_ in his spare time, either.   


“Thanks, Tatsumi,” he whispered.  


Tatsumi nodded, pushed his glasses back up, and walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.  


  


~*~

  


  


Sunlight poked through patches in the low-lying clouds. Tsuzuki could almost imagine himself warm. Hisoka walked behind him, in surprisingly good spirits. They were able to find the spirit on the _kiseki_ —an elderly gentleman still holding on for the sake of his granddaughter—and helped him cross over with minimal heartache—something very rare.   


“Hey, Hisoka,” Tsuzuki said. “Since we’ve got some free time, why don’t we go on a date?” He smiled brilliantly. “We could go get something to eat. Or there’s a carnival across the river. We could ride some rides, I could win you a nice stuff anim—ugh!”  


Hisoka’s can of soda bounced off Tsuzuki’s head and tumbled down into the gutter. “Idiot. I’m not a girl. And we don’t have time for such things. Chief Konoe said there’re mountains of paperwork waiting for you back at the ministry. And if I know you, and I _do_ , that means there’s a mountain of paperwork _I’ll_ be doing while you complain about an empty stomach.”  


“Ah, don’t be so mean,” Tsuzuki whined, wiping cola off his cheek. “It isn’t good to just work, work, work, all the time. You only get one afterlife, you know.”  


Hisoka shot him a look. “Do you have enough left in our budget allowance for lunch or carnival rides?”  


Tsuzuki opened his mouth, then shut it. His shoulders sagged dejectedly. “No.”  


“You can’t expect Tatsumi-san to keep paying for things while you spend eternity working off your debts,” Hisoka said, staring at the sunlight as it sparkled on the water.  


Tsuzuki thought it would take him several eternities to pay Tatsumi back all that he owed the older man. “You’re right. I guess we should head back.”  


He started walking, but Hisoka hadn’t moved. He turned. “What?”  


Hisoka peered at him, then closed his eyes and sighed. “Well, I happen to have a little money saved.”  


Tsuzuki perked up.  


“I suppose an hour or two at a carnival couldn’t hurt—hey!”  


Tsuzuki grabbed Hisoka’s arm and started hauling him toward the bridge. “All right, Hisoka! Let’s go! Not a minute to lose! I wanna ride the teacups and the pirate ship and eat funnel cake and play the dart game. Come on, hurry, hurry!”  


“Tsu . . . Tsuzuki!”   


Tsuzuki put Hisoka in a headlock and dragged him over the bridge. “Holding out on me all this time! What kind of partner are you, huh?”  


“Knock it off, dumbass!” Hisoka mumbled into Tsuzuki’s sleeve.   


“Come on, come on!”  


He herded Hisoka to the carnival where, after much begging, pleading, and tantrum-throwing, Tsuzuki persuaded his partner to ride the teacups and Ferris wheel, try caramel apples and funnel cake, and play a game of darts and shoot at paper targets.   


They returned just as the sun set. Hisoka sniffed, shaking his head as Tsuzuki, grinning beatifically behind a giant hot-pink stuffed bear, made his way up the concrete stairs.   


At the top of the stairs, a slim figure in a pressed suit leaned on the doorframe. Tatsumi’s right eyebrow climbed to new heights. “Had a good time, did we?”  


“Mm.” Tsuzuki nodded.  


“Glad to hear it.” Tatsumi folded his arms. “I assume you’ll be staying in the ministry apartments again tonight . . . that is, if you manage to finish all your paperwork before dawn, Tsuzuki.” He smiled an evil, wicked, heartless smile.  


Every line in Tsuzuki’s face turned down. “Ah . . . uh huh.”  


“Tsuzuki . . . I—” Hisoka started.  


“Unfortunately, Kurosaki-kun,” Tatsumi interrupted, “this is something I insist he do himself. He’d push all his responsibilities off on his partners, if he thought he could get away with it. Trust me.”  


The inside of Tsuzuki’s mouth tasted sour—bile. Still, he couldn’t refute what Tatsumi had said. He _was_ a bit of a leech. A burden.  


“I expect your completed files on my desk tomorrow, Tsuzuki. And they better be legible.” Tatsumi snatched the bear right out of his hands and proceeded to walk down the corridor at a clipped pace. "The chief will be delighted that you brought him back a present."  


“What crawled up his ass?” Tsuzuki murmured.  


“I heard that,” Tatsumi called over his shoulder.  


Hisoka chuckled and gave Tsuzuki a sympathetic look. “Do your best, Tsuzuki.”  


“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “Sleep well, Hisoka.”  


  


~*~

  


  


With nothing to distract him, Tsuzuki finished more than three-fourths of his paperwork by four in the morning. It wasn’t like he couldn’t roll up his sleeves and get down to business when he had to, and besides, he wanted to wipe that smirk off Tatsumi’s face so bad. Sure, it had taken four cups of coffee, six trips to the bathroom, and two broken ballpoint pens—oh, cleaning up that mess had been fun—but he was almost finished. Two more files, Xerox the reports, stamp it with his seal, and then he could get some sleep.  


For maybe three hours.   


Sighing, Tsuzuki scooted his large chair closer to the desk and massaged the cramp in his hand. All the kanji were starting to bleed together, but he wasn’t quite ready to call it quits. Just a little more, and he’d be caught up for the year . . .  


He scribbled away for a few more minutes, his desk lamp the only light in the office. Then he had to rest his eyes. Just a little bit. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his temples. He had a horrible headache. And his back was in knots.  


He hunched over the desk and tried to work out the kinks in his neck. Suddenly, warm hands ghosted over his shoulders, pressed down with the pads of strong thumbs, and rubbing in tiny circles, eased his tension away.  


“Ahhhh . . .” he gasped.   


He flopped his head over onto his bunched hands and let his spine go limp. Those talented hands worked him, massaging his shoulders, looping down along the muscles on either side of his vertebrae, pressing and stretching his lower back.   


“Oh yeah,” he murmured.  


Whoever it was doing this to him—Hisoka or Tatsumi or Watari—he’d have to think of a nice thank you gift, right after he finished drooling all over his files.   


“Hmmm, shoulders again?” he grumbled.  


A soft chuckle, and long fingers were back, digging into the flesh between his neck and shoulders, melting him into a gooey lump of _shinigami_.   


“Ahhh.”  


“What tempting sounds you make, Tsuzuki-san,” a deep voice whispered.  


Tsuzuki’s eyes snapped open. His whole body froze.  


“Tsk, tsk, don’t undo all my hard work.”  


He shot up from the desk so fast that he almost knocked the chair over, but just as quickly, he was pushed back down and held against the seat in an iron grip.  


“Muraki!” he hissed, turning his head slightly.  


Sure enough, the silver-haired doctor stood over him, his hands splayed down over Tsuzuki’s chest, his glasses gleaming. Muraki smiled.  


“You carry a lot of tension in your back, Tsuzuki-san. That’s not good.” Long fingers loosened Tsuzuki’s tie and played along the back of his neck.  


Tsuzuki shivered when Muraki’s fingernail traced down his throat. “What the hell are you doing here? Only dead people can get into Hades.”  


“It’s adorable the way you still think of me as a mere human.” Muraki bent over, smoothed his cheek against Tsuzuki’s heated face, and whispered, “You were the one that let me in. You carried me with you.”   


Tsuzuki startled when Muraki kissed him on the cheek. “What?”  


“You carry darkness inside you the way a pitcher holds water—it was what you were made for.” Muraki smiled coldly. “I have long since given myself over to the darkness, Tsuzuki-san. Isn’t it time you did, too? Or have you not yet tired of the struggle?”  


Muraki bit down on his throat, sucked at the cord of muscle there. Tsuzuki wanted to fight, wanted to get away, but . . . it felt so good. And his limbs were so heavy. He was so tired. And his head felt dizzy, full of cotton. He rubbed his forehead.  


“What have you done to me?”  


He squinted as Muraki’s tongue traced the shell of his head. “Nothing, yet.”   


Those long fingers started unbuttoning his shirt.   


“Stop fucking around,” Tsuzuki growled. He could scream for help, but would anyone hear him this far away from the apartments? He didn’t want to release Byakko; he was _still_ paying for the damages done to the library. But it didn’t look he had much choice—he wasn’t looking for this battle, but he couldn’t let Muraki just waltz in here and molest him.  


“Might I remind you,” Muraki said casually, “that my power allows me to siphon off any energy you might use in an attack, and send it right back to you. Really, Tsuzuki, I can appreciate how much you hate paperwork, but you wouldn’t want me to destroy the entire ministry, surely?”  


Tsuzuki glared ahead, his vision blurring. “Muraki . . .”  


Suddenly Muraki’s hands closed around his throat, squeezing just enough so that breathing was possible, but difficult. “I’m stronger than you. Stronger than you could ever hope to be. Luckily, I have no wish to kill you . . . Tsuzuki-san.” Muraki licked his cheek. “I have plans for this perfect body of yours.”  


“Psychotic pervert,” Tsuzuki breathed.  


Muraki chuckled. “Yes, well, true. But how can I help it? Such a gorgeous boy, trapped in such flawless skin . . . You _look_ human enough, but we both know there’s a demon in you that cannot die.”  


Tsuzuki struggled in vain, kicking at the desk, knocking over folders. Muraki held him without any effort at all. Eventually, the lack of oxygen got to him, and he stilled.   


“Good boy,” Muraki murmured. “You’re learning.”  


“What the fuck do you want from me?”  


“Everything,” came the whisper. It was like Muraki’s voice had crept into every crevice, every pocket of darkness. “I want your body and soul; I want the demon within. I want to put my brother inside you. I want you to moan with pleasure, writhe in agony. I want you to call my name and beg me to let you come. I want to destroy you, again and again and again.” Muraki twisted his face around so that Tsuzuki could look into his large, silver dragon-eye. “I want you to pay for your sins.”  


“Hm—mm!” Tsuzuki strained away as Muraki kissed him, parting his lips, delving inside. Muraki’s tongue stroked over the roof of his mouth.  


It shamed him, how quickly he got hard.  


Muraki pushed him over the desk and _ripped_ his shirt open, buttons flying every which way. Tsuzuki’s hands splayed over the files, crumpling the paper.   


“Do you think I can’t feel how much you want this?” Muraki asked bitterly, groping Tsuzuki’s ass possessively. “How much you want me to break you?”   


The older man straddled the chair and sat down, pulling Tsuzuki back to sit between his legs. Muraki flattened his palm over Tsuzuki’s crotch and rubbed in slow, taunting circles. “Do you think,” he whispered, “I can’t see you in the darkness?”  


Tsuzuki moaned and pitched forward, pulling away. It was useless. Muraki’s mouth was back on his neck, sucking at him like a damned vampire. One hand teased his left nipple, the other shaped him through his slacks.  


“Ha! Oh . . . Na—ng!” Tsuzuki shivered, clutching the desk, his eyes screwed shut.  


Muraki unbuttoned his pants and slowly pulled down the zipper. His warm hand sneaked under the cloth and took Tsuzuki in a sure grip. His fist pumped up and down, up and down, and all the while, he moaned his approval and sucked on Tsuzuki’s throat.  


“You . . . sick . . . fuck!” Tsuzuki grated out.br / >

He could feel Muraki smirk against his neck. “You’re hard and leaking just from this,” Muraki reminded him. “Let’s not be hypocrites.”  


“My body is not the master of me, Muraki. _I_ don’t want anything to do with you,” Tsuzuki said weakly.  


“Oh, but you’re wrong. You are very much a slave to your body. We all are.” Muraki rubbed his thumb over the head of Tsuzuki’s prick, smearing the precome there. “It’s our tragic flaw. You want me, Tsuzuki . . . You’ll beg me before day breaks.”  


“S-Stop!”  


Muraki kissed his shoulder. The older man’s hips canted forward, rubbing his stiff prick against the swell of Tsuzuki’s ass. He bit his lip to keep from moaning—it was an impressively large cock, digging into his back.   


Long fingers threaded through his hair and snapped his head back. “Hisoka-kun looked so happy today, at the carnival, don’t you think?”  


Tsuzuki reeled. “You were . . .?”  


“He seems much more relaxed and hopeful these days. Must be your influence. It would be a shame,” Muraki said, his voice as thin as the edge of a knife, “if I had to take him in your place.”  


He stilled. “You bastard. You’ve already played that card.”  


“I never got to finish my game. In the end, I still have the rights to him, you know.” Muraki pinched his nipple so hard that Tsuzuki cried out. “Even in death, his skin still bears my curse. His body still remembers my embrace. Shall I break him in your stead?”  


Tsuzuki summoned all his power, but before he could so much as conjure an _o-fuda_ , Muraki sucked the energy right out of him. He collapsed into the other man’s arms, exhausted and weak.   


Muraki chuckled long and low. “Of course, the child will not last long enough for what I have in mind. I prefer my lovers to have a higher pain threshold. I want someone who _wants_ to hurt—who understands that they deserve the pain.” Muraki stroked a forefinger back and forth over Tsuzuki’s chin. “Someone who feels guilty.”  


“What the hell . . . ?" Tsuzuki whispered, twitching. Muraki jerked him to full hardness; he desperately wanted to come.  


“Tatsumi Seiichiro killed his own mother.” Muraki’s voice sounded scathing. “Children who kill their parents deserve a special sort of punishment, don’t you think? Something fit for hell. I could strip him out of his skin and fuck him to death, and he’d deserve it, wouldn’t you say, Tsuzuki-san?”  


“Lay one hand on them, you bastard, and I’ll do _worse_ to you,” Tsuzuki promised, his voice thick.  


Muraki’s excited breath panted over his ear. His hips thrust forward more eagerly, humping Tsuzuki in earnest now. “You’d try. But like in everything else, you’d fail. Come now, we both know you’re no match for me, Tsuzuki. Luckily, I’m not really interested in them.”  


“So . . . what . . . then?” Tsuzuki’s head lolled back and he arched, both in an effort to get away, and to give Muraki more to grind against.  


Muraki smirked. “Consider your body a tithe. Pay me with it, and keep them safe.”  


He would do anything to protect Hisoka . . . anything in the world, honorable or not, for Tatsumi.   


Tsuzuki shook his head and groaned, finally unable to bear it any longer. His hips rolled in circles, thrusting his cock into Muraki’s hand, grinding his ass back into Muraki’s crotch. “Just be done with it.”  


Muraki paused, then raked his nails down Tsuzuki’s chest. “Lean over the desk.”  


Swallowing, Tsuzuki tried to stand, but he couldn’t. He needed Muraki’s help; the older man draped him across his paperwork and then pulled his pants down over his hips, letting them pool around his ankles.   


He expected to be roughly penetrated and used until Muraki was satisfied that he’d been humiliated enough. He just wanted it to be over, so he could flop bonelessly to the floor and breathe again.   


Instead, Muraki bent over him, reached across for a wooden ruler, and kissed Tsuzuki’s shoulder. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, Tsuzuki.” He licked Tsuzuki’s ear. “Spread your legs.”  


Tsuzuki did, but Muraki knocked his feet farther apart until he was wide open. He was expecting it, but nothing really prepared him for the stinging blow. Muraki beat him with the ruler, the crack of wood smacking against his flesh reverberating through the empty office.   


“Oh!” Tsuzuki cried out. It hurt, but he was glad for the pain. He lifted his ass, silently begging for more. Muraki did not disappoint.  


“I’d make you count, but I don’t think you’re ready for training at this point,” Muraki said, his voice strained.   


Tsuzuki frowned, confused.   


Muraki beat him a few more times, then cupped his ass soothingly. “There now. Didn’t you like that?”  


Tsuzuki said nothing.   


Muraki whacked him so hard that he yelped. “Yes! Yes, I liked it!” he sobbed.  


“Hm. Good boy. I know you did. But when I ask you a question, you’d better answer me right away.” Muraki pulled his hips back and stroked his thighs. He kissed his way down the notches of Tsuzuki’s spine, then laved at the crack of his ass, raking his fingernails over Tsuzuki’s pinked buttocks.   


Tsuzuki couldn’t keep quiet as Muraki rimmed him—it felt too good. So wrong, so wrong. Warm and wet and disgusting . . . “Ugh . . . pl-please!”  


Muraki got up and held Tsuzuki’s head down, smooshing his cheek against the files, ink staining his face. “You’re a very, very naughty boy, aren’t you?”  


“Y-yes!”  


The older man beat him with the ruler again, beat him until it broke. Tsuzuki was crying now, sniffing and keening. Muraki used the flat of his palm, spanking Tsuzuki ruthlessly, until he thought he would pass out.   


Then Muraki pulled him back into the chair and cradled him close, petting wet strands of hair off his forehead. “Shh, there, there, my precious one.” Muraki kissed just below his ear. “You did well, my doll.”  


Tsuzuki whimpered, folding in on himself. He let Muraki cosset and fuss over him for a while, until his tears were under control. “I hate you,” he finally whispered.  


Muraki stilled. “No, beloved. You hate _yourself_. I’m just your reflection.”  


In all his life, no other words Tsuzuki had heard spoken rang more true. He turned around, wrapped his arms around Muraki’s shoulders, and sobbed into Muraki’s neck.  


And Muraki held him until he was empty.   


Then Muraki kissed him, sweet, gentle, lover-like kisses, while his fingernails scratched red-blood trails open down Tsuzuki’s back and ass. Tsuzuki just clung to the older man, his cock throbbing insistently against his belly.   


“Tsuzuki-san,” Muraki whispered, rubbing his thumb over Tsuzuki’s lower lip, smearing the blood and saliva there. “Get me ready for you?”  


Nodding weakly, Tsuzuki went limp, allowing Muraki to lower him to his knees. He rested his cheek against Muraki’s thigh and waited for the older man to unzip. Then he slowly licked and laved at the purple, weeping cock in front of him. Muraki was so big it was hard to take into his mouth, but Tsuzuki did his best, bobbing up and down, getting Muraki good and wet.  


Muraki’s hands combed through his hair. The older man sighed. “Good boy. Very good.”  


Tsuzuki kept at it until his jaw ached, until he forgot what it was like to breathe, until he thought he could choke on Muraki’s stiff prick. Muraki lifted him up and kissed him reverently, then spun him around and pushed him back over the paperwork. He took up one of Tsuzuki’s wrists in each hand and held them high over Tsuzuki’s head, pinning his hands to the back of the desk.  


Without needing to be asked, Tsuzuki flattened his belly over the files and spread his legs.   


Muraki positioned himself and slid in, inch by agonizing inch. Tsuzuki was too tired and dizzy to protest, even though it hurt unbelievably. All he could do was shiver and moan. He could feel himself bleed on the inside as delicate muscles stretched and tore open.  


Muraki set up a lazy rhythm, fucking him deeply, burying himself to the root, over and over and over again. Their harsh panting filled up the dark shadows around them. Tsuzuki closed his eyes against the warm light of the desk lamp and gave himself up to the pain. His body wanted it, needed it, Muraki’s thrusts rubbed him harshly against the desk, and he tried to imagine what the older man felt, fucking him, tight, slick flesh engulfing his cock, and he wanted it, wanted it, wanted to be taken and to take . . .  


“Slut,” Muraki whispered affectionately. “Slut.”  


Muraki’s fingers left purple imprints on Tsuzuki’s wrists, but of course, the bruises, the scrapes, the tears, and the hickeys wouldn’t last—his body was perfect, regenerative, flawless. All his scars were hidden, deep on the inside.  


Pulling back, Muraki sat down, bringing Tsuzuki back with him. Tsuzuki could only grip the sides of the chair and plant his feet on the lip of the desk as Muraki snapped his hips up, fucking him like an animal, wild, grunting, nails raking his scalp, his chest, that huge cock driving into him, deeper, deeper.  


Tsuzuki brought his hands up and tangled them into Muraki’s hair, pulling the older man’s mouth down for a kiss. It was sloppy and wet and full of gasps and so good. Muraki jostled him so quickly now, the chair threatened to break, and Tsuzuki was tearing and crying and begging for more . . .  


Muraki surged up, pushed Tsuzuki three feet toward the wall of filing cabinets, slammed him up against the cold, hard metal, and thrust back in. He stabbed at Tsuzuki with his prick, jabbing, jabbing, until Tsuzuki could only squeal and rake at the cabinets with his bloody fingernails.   


“Yes, yes, mine! Join with me!” Muraki grunted, thrusting so hard that Tsuzuki had to come up on the balls of his feet. Strong hands pulled Tsuzuki’s hips back down, over and over, until Tsuzuki lost all strength in his legs.   


Stumbling, Muraki hauled them back to the desk, threw Tsuzuki down on his back, hitched his knees up to his chest, and resumed that brutal pace, thrusting between Tsuzuki’s thighs. Their faces were scant inches from one another.   


Tsuzuki stared into Muraki’s dragon-eye. Madness, there. Madness he recognized. He wound his arms around Muraki’s shoulders and leaned up for a kiss. It was savage, teeth clashing, moaning, tongues warring.  


He raked his nails down Muraki’s back, squeezed his ass, pulling Muraki in deeper, and cried out, “More!”  


His dick throbbed between their sweat-slick bellies. He was going to come, any second now . . .   


Muraki’s hand sneaked down and squeezed his cock until Tsuzuki saw stars dance on the edge of his vision. The older man jerked him in time with the rapid thrusts, pummeling him. All of it was brutal, brutal; exactly what he needed; Muraki understood that; Muraki gave him what he needed, what his body craved and his soul deserved; and he would worship Muraki for that, would give into it as often as the other man allowed, would gladly pay his tithe to keep the others innocent. He was dirty, dirty, dirty.  


“Tsu . . . zuki . . .” Muraki growled, before biting down on his throat.   


Tsuzuki bucked up and froze, coming so hard it hurt.   


“My dark lover,” Muraki whispered. “It’s just beginning."  


Vaguely he was aware of Muraki’s warmth flooding him, before everything went dark and cold.  


  


~*~

  


  


“Tsuzuki? Tsuzuki!”  


Tsuzuki blinked. The light hurt his eyes. His whole body hurt. Everything throbbed. He felt like he was under water. He wished that persistent voice would leave him alone. He wanted to stay in the darkness.  


“Tsuzuki, look at me!”  


He knew that voice. He knew the timbre . . . “Tatsumi,” he whispered brokenly.  


“Tsuzuki, open your eyes!”  


Slowly, he did. He took in his surroundings. He was sitting, fully dressed, in his chair, his elbows on the desk. The paperwork was an awful nightmare—ink blots and drool everywhere, papers arranged haphazardly, file folders on the floor. The desk lamp was knocked over, casting an eerie beam up to the ceiling.   


He felt hollow.  


“Tatsumi?”  


“Tsuzuki, are you all right?” Tatsumi’s worried face hovered beside him. The older man was on his knees, his hands propping Tsuzuki up.  


“I . . . Look at the mess.” Tsuzuki pointed to the desk.  


Tatsumi cupped Tsuzuki’s chin and held his face steady, locking their gazes. “Tsuzuki. Are. You. All. Right?”  


Tsuzuki teared up. “I made a mess of things,” he whispered.  


Tatsumi cupped Tsuzuki’s face. “None of that matters now. Are _you_ all right? You’re feverish.”  


Sniveling, Tsuzuki nodded out of reflex. No, of course he was not all right. He’d been raped and he’d begged for it, so that didn’t really count as rape at all, did it? He’d wanted it; somehow he’d let the enemy through the gate and wound up nothing more than a puppet in that sick bastard’s games . . . and he’d felt like he’d finally found his place. Down at heel.  


“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he ground out, falling to his hands and knees. He managed to yank the wastebasket under him before he dry-heaved.  


Tatsumi was right there, running a soothing hand across his sore shoulders, wiping his hair back off his face. “You’re not well, Tsuzuki. Let’s get you to bed.”  


Tsuzuki wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where is he? Did he leave?”  


Tatsumi frowned. “Who?”  


Tsuzuki peered up at the brown-haired man. He was in his pajamas—creamy white silk. More expensive than he expected from a tight-wad like Tatsumi. “What are you doing here?”  


“I . . .” Tatsumi paused. “I thought I’d check in on things.” And by _things_ , it was clear Tatsumi meant _Tsuzuki_. “Good thing I did, too. You’re not well.”  


Tsuzuki smiled bitterly. “I’m already dead. Getting sick seems rather silly, doesn’t it?”  


Tatsumi shrugged. “There’s all kinds of soul sicknesses.” He helped Tsuzuki to his feet, holding him close when he wavered.  


“Is that what I am? Soul sick?” Tsuzuki teared up again. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered, turning away. “I’m so sick.”  


“Tsuzuki,” Tatsumi whispered, reaching out for him.  


“Don’t touch me!” Tsuzuki screamed. “Don’t ever,” he breathed out, “sully yourself.”  


“What’s gotten into you?” Tatsumi demanded. “You’re not possessed again, are you?”  


Pushing off the desk, Tsuzuki straightened his shoulders. “No. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” He swallowed. “I was just . . . having a very bad dream.” When he thought he could manage it, he turned to give Tatsumi a brittle smile. “I’m fine now. I’ll go rest, like you said. So don’t worry anymore.”  


Tatsumi hesitated, clearly unsettled, but Tsuzuki didn’t have any words left in him, so he just turned and limped toward the door. He stumbled and had to grip the filing cabinet on the wall to keep from falling, but then he reeled back like he’d been burned.  


Cursing, Tatsumi rushed forward and caught him just before he crumpled to the floor. “Tsuzuki!”  


He looked up at Tatsumi. The man cradled him close, like he was a damsel in distress or something. Tsuzuki smiled a dopey smile. “Don’t make Hisoka finish that,” he said, pointing to the ramshackled paperwork. “I’ll get it straightened out after I rest, okay?” He closed his eyes and nuzzled Tatsumi’s broad chest.  


“Fuck the paperwork, let’s get you to bed.”   


He knew that Tatsumi was carrying him to the ministry’s apartments, but he couldn’t really feel anything; he was numb and half-out of it, so he could hardly protest, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn't.   


“I need a bath. I’m dirty,” he murmured.   


“Later,” Tatsumi growled, kicking open the door. “When you wake up.”  


“Okay. But I’ll get the sheets dirty.”  


Tatsumi paused. “Tsuzuki . . .”  


His head rolled back and he peered at Tatsumi. “Where’s this?”  


“My rooms,” Tatsumi said, lowering him to the bed. “I’ll watch over you while you sleep.”  


Tsuzuki was totally limp as Tatsumi undressed him. First his shoes and socks, then his pants, and finally his shirt.   


Tatsumi froze, his eyes going wide.   


“What?” Tsuzuki garbled.  


“Nothing,” Tatsumi quickly reassured. “Nothing.” He tucked Tsuzuki under the covers. “Rest.”  


“Tatsumi,” Tsuzuki said, near total exhaustion. “You’re always taking care of me. I’m such a screw up. Why do you bother?”  


A long, weighty silence. Tsuzuki didn’t think Tatsumi was going to answer him. “You’re not a screw up, Tsuzuki.”  


He chuckled. “You were the first in line to say so.” His smile turned into a frown as tears streaked—one, two, three—down the side of his face.  


Tatsumi winced. “Please stop crying. You know I cannot bear to see you cry.”   


“I’m sorry,” Tsuzuki sobbed. “I just don’t think I can stop.”  


“Tsuzuki, tell me what’s wrong?” Tatsumi pleaded.  


He turned away, his shoulders shaking. “Just stupid nightmares. I just need a vacation.”  


Tatsumi gasped. Tsuzuki looked over his shoulder to see the other man’s horrified expression. Tatsumi’s fingertips traced over the welts on his back—welts that should have been gone by now.   


The older man gaped. “Who . . . ? What . . . ?”  


Tsuzuki frowned. “Oh, I see. This is a dream too.”  


“What are you saying? This isn’t a dream!” Tatsumi insisted.  


Tsuzuki smiled. “Of course it is. Why else would you be so nice to me?” He reached over and ran his thumb across Tatsumi’s cheek. “That only ever happens in my dreams.”  


“Tsuzuki,” Tatsumi choked out. “Who did this to you?”  


Tsuzuki collapsed back to the bed, spent. “Muraki said it was my tithe. I was . . . happy to pay it . . .”  


Tatsumi’s face darkened. His eyes sharpened and glowed like striking flint. Tsuzuki had never seen him so furious. “What happened?”  


Tsuzuki shook his head, his eyelids drooping. “Just a dream.”  


“Tsu . . .” Tatsumi trailed off.  


“Can we rest now?” Tsuzuki murmured, half-asleep. “Can we rest now, Tatsumi?”  


Tatsumi stretched out on the bed beside him—Tsuzuki registered this as sudden, hard warmth. A smooth hand palmed his cheek, then rested on his shoulder. “Yes, rest. I’ll take care of you, Tsuzuki. I’ll fix it.”  


“Hm.” He sighed, snuggling closer. “Good dream this time, then.”  


Tatsumi petted his hair. “Shh. I’ve got you now. Don’t worry. We’ll fight him together.”  


Tsuzuki blinked a few times—the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. _An army of lovers._   


He curled into Tatsumi’s embrace and slept.   


~*~

  



End file.
